Going Up In Flames
by Soncnica
Summary: A ghost burns Dean. Simple as that… or not as simple as that.


**So… umm… ****the idea that brought on this fic was: hurt Dean in the show vs. hurt Dean in fics. There's a difference! A big one. And so… Enkidu07, Mad Server, PADavis and I came up with this project, called:**** H/C Dogme '09, or Needy Dean****… basically to make a hurt Dean fic, where Sam and Dean are 'acting' the same as in the show, when Dean is hurt… we even set up some rules and well… there were a lot of rules! LOL And one of them was 'this has to be set in S1' LOL. **

**And NEXT WEEK, Jan. 2****nd****, we're putting up REMIXES! ****I will post my rewrite of Mad Server's fic, Mad Server will post her rewrite of PADavis's story, Enkidu07 will post her rewrite of this story and PADavis will post her rewrite of Enkidu07's fic.  
**

**Anyways… go check out Mad Server's story Display, Enkidu07's story Left Behind and PADavis' story called Land Of Enchantment. **

**P.S.: Girls… I loved doing this project with you! And Mad Server thank you for the amazing beta job you did with this story.**

**I own nothing. And I'm sorry for all the spelling/grammar mistakes.  
**

**Enjoy…**

**---**

The room was dark. And silent. The little stained smeared window, the only source of light besides a small lamp on the bedside table, was cracked open a little to let in some cold, fresh air… the gray curtains were moving slowly left and right in the breeze, sweeping dust that had piled up on the wooden floor underneath them.

The noise coming in was just a hum, nothing specific. Nothing that would wake up anything in the room. Shadows were moving in the corners, on the ceiling, on the floor. The shadows were keeping the room company, while it waited lonely and silent for someone to come and make it alive again.

A lazy stream of light coming from a streetlight was drawn over the carpet, starting by the window and going all the way to the bathroom door, grazing the table as it went.

The furniture was hidden in darkness… the corners of the room were dark, the small kitchen's fridge was only recognizable by the noise it was making, the beds were clean and neatly done, the covers pale yellow and tucked neatly beneath the mattress.

The room was quiet. And dark.

And then the door opened and the room became a chaos of noise and light.

"Go sit down, man. And keep that ice on you."

Dean groaned and clutched at his hand, bringing it closer to his chest; he didn't know what he was trying to protect more… his arm or his chest.

"Yeah, yeah stop munching on my nerves."

The truth was… he wanted to just sit down on the floor, right where he was standing and rock back and forth like a baby, trying not to cry too much.

"Dean, now!"

He stumbled into the room, clutched at the sleeve of Sam's jacket when the force of the stumble made him sway way too much. He had to let go of the ice package in favor of doing that, and it fell down to the floor.

"Whoah… man… you good?"

"Fuck…"

There went his ice package; and he worked so hard to get it just right… and now everything was scattered all over the floor; little and big ice cubes… lying miserably on the carpet.

Duck tape is for shit now days, can't even hold a T-shirt filled with ice together, Dean thought while he watched his relief melt into the carpet.

"You good to stand?"

Sam said somewhere from above him.

"Yeah, yeah… 'm good. Let go of me."

Sam made no move and neither did he. He was still clutching at Sam's jacket like it was the only thing keeping him up. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't; it was hard to tell over the persistent pain clawing its way from his arm and chest. It was as if his flesh was burning and he couldn't stop it from going up in flames.

"Are you gonna let go of me or…"

"Gimme back my ice…"

It was torture. Pure torture… his burn was… fuckin' hurting.

"Okay, look, you want the ice first or you wanna go sit down first? Or can you make it to the bed by yourself?"

Sam doubted Dean knew what he wanted to do in that moment. He could still feel his brother swaying a little.

Dean licked his lips: "Ice. Need ice…ice, definitely ice." The bed was too far away from him; it seemed like it was in a totally different dimension. Ice – or what was left of it - was closer.

Sam smiled: "Okay, just let me…"

Dean lost it for a minute… the throbbing pain in his forearm was so persistent, his brain stopped processing time and space… all he could feel was Sam bending over, then he heard some cracking noises and before he knew it, he had the T-shirt filled with ice back over his wound.

Clearly… Sam was a freakin' magician.

"Here…"

Sam pressed the T-shirt filled with ice harder onto Dean forearm and heard his brother sigh: "Heaven."

It was cold and it was hot and it hurt. And it felt heavenly, when the cold slipped into his wound. The ice was melting and little streams of water were running down his arm, between his fingers.

When Sam finally pushed him to flop onto the neatly done bed, the gravity forced him to release Sam's jacket in favor of the bed covers. They felt colder and raspier then Sam's jacket was, but he gripped them anyway. They were what was keeping him in the room, they were what his hands were fixated on, when the fabric of Sam's jacket slipped away.

"That was some night, man," Sam said and plopped himself on his own bed, already tugging out the neatly done bed covers.

"If you ever," Dean took off his jacket with almost numb fingers, "go missing like that again, I swear Sam…"

The cold in the room made him shiver for a second before the feeling of being on fire returned to his brain and he hissed.

Sam was halfway up from his bed saying: "You okay?" when Dean shot him down with a glare saying: "Yeah, 'm better then your ass… I swear to God Sam… dontcha ever do that again."

"What? You'll kill me? You said that the last time and Dean, it wasn't my fault. I mean…"

"Don't tempt me, Sam. And it was totally your fault."

Dean unclenched the bed covers and removed the T-shirt filled with melting ice. That was a mistake, because the heat spread over his arm like lightning. He pushed the ice back over the wound. This… sucked.

But he needed to get his shirt off somehow, right!? He couldn't go on and on and on for days wearing the same freakin' shirt? Right? Right.

Sam was fumbling with his phone, probably checking for messages or missed calls from his 'friends' but there was nothing, because the next second his phone was thrown onto a table and he got up from the bed. It was ridiculous to see Sam standing there in front of him, between the beds, their toes practically touching… it had been too long since it had been like this. Too long.

His lips found a smile through the blaze eating up his skin and when Sam looked down at him, he looked away and tried to tug at his shirt. He couldn't quite look Sam in the eyes at that moment… the memories, the 'Sam is here after all this time' and the consistent pounding in his forearm was just too much to handle. So he did what he could… ignored everything and looked down at his arm and couldn't believe that one little burn could hurt this freakin' much. Okay, it was a supernatural burn, a burn that some ass faced ghost had given him, but it shouldn't hurt this much, right?

Wrong. Wrong on so many levels. Wrong.

He took a deep breath, quickly removed the ice again and touched the sleeve of his shirt to pull it off, but the pain screamed at him not to do it, because he would either throw up or pass out.

But it was either look Sam in the eyes or tug. Dean chose to tug…

And can you spell mistake? Dean's brain could before he did that.

"Damnit, damnit…"

It was like a volcano had exploded on his forearm, lava of pain spreading through his nerves. It took his breath away for a second and the room became bleary as looking at it through rain.

He was being as careful as he could be, but the material of the shirt was literally burned into his forearm and it hurt like all Hell when he tugged. It was just a tug, nothing harsh, just one small little tug and he thought his skin would come off with the shirt if he tugged any harder.

He didn't wanna think about how his chest was going to feel when he tried to take off his T-shirt.

He shuddered at the thought, but thanked whoever was up in Heaven that his chest had taken the least of the damage, because it didn't hurt so much there. It just felt numb sort of, but then again maybe that was a bad thing.

"Dean?"

He grunted in reply and listened to Sam moving some chairs around, taking off his jacket and walking somewhere, but he was so concentrated on just taking his shirt off that he blocked his brother out, not seeing what Sam was really doing.

His mouth stretched into a grimace when he tried to pull at the shirt again. The jab of pain he felt on his forearm wasn't as bad as before but it wasn't good either. And he didn't actually get the shirt off, it was still where it was… burned into his skin.

_Damnit. _

"Need any help there?"

"No, I got it."

Sam sighed: "Yeah, cause you're looking like you're about to cry is really a sure sign that you got it."

"Eat me."

"Grumpy are we?"

"Make yourself useful and get the bags."

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

And Sam was out the door even before the words fully reached Dean's ears.

"Son of a bitch."

Dean rolled his eyes and planted his feet more firmly on the floor. He could do this, he could do this… just one little pull and the shirt will be off his arm and then he could mercifully pass out for a few seconds and then come up with a plan for taking off his T-shirt.

Anything to pass the time, right!? Yeah… just pull.

And pull he did.

"AAAH! Son of a… AAAAH, Godddd!"

He felt the shirt being ripped from his body and probably some of the flesh from the wound went with it too. It made a weird squelching sound, and he just couldn't think about it, because every nerve in his forearm went crazy.

He fell back, down on the bed, his feet still firmly planted on the floor, hitting his back on the cold covers with a force that took the remaining breath out of him.

He closed his eyes, trying to get some air into his lungs, trying not to focus too much on the little spots of light that were starting to dance in the darkness of his eyelids, trying to ignore the spread of _hothothot _pain that travelled all over his body making him shudder.

"Okay," pant, "… okay… " pant, "… that," pant, "… hurt. That hurt," a breath in through his nose, "really really," a breath out through his mouth, "bad." He whispered to the ceiling and the fridge made a sound like it was agreeing with him. Dean chuckled and wiped some cold sweat from his hot forehead: "Sonofabitch, that hurt."

His forearm was on pure, white, hot fire, flames licking at his fingers, his wrist, his elbow, his shoulder… licking up and down his skin like they were out of their mind…he could even feel them in his temples.

He stayed there, lying on his back, watching the ceiling like he was waiting to die. The fire would eventually consume him and there would be nothing left of him, but ashes.

"That's a comforting thought," he breathed and closed his eyes. He just needed to rest for a second. Just one second.

"What the Hell? Dean?"

Sam's voice was all kinds of shock to his ears and mind; he hadn't been expecting him back so soon.

"Wha…"

"What the Hell did you do?"

Then Sam hauled him up, and his body got a shock of its own.

The room actually swung left and right and the bells in his ears started playing a tune… one that spelled 'puke ASAP'.

He groaned, expecting the bells to take his suggestion and shut the Hell up. But they didn't… not by a long shot. They just started ringing louder and before he knew it, the heat that was licking his forearm spread up to his head, enveloping his brain.

"Sam… I don't… feel soooo g'd," he breathed out with small puffs of air. The room was swinging before his eyes and Sam's face was coming closer and closer, his brother's eyes getting bigger and bigger and his lips tighter and tighter – was Sam angry? - and before he knew it his head hit something soft yet hard and it was moving underneath his forehead.

It was kind of neat; the movement… he would probably be able to see beauty in it - in the way it was making the skin on his forehead go up and down slightly – if there wasn't for some bile already traveling up his throat. He needed to throw up… yeah… just puke out his guts and just… die. But he swallowed instead and mumbled: "Ahg…" in pure misery.

"Dean?"

He raised his hands up and lost his fingers in Sam's warm shirt. It was a really soft shirt. Really slippery beneath his fingers.

"Dean, you're bleeding."

The material was really slippery, constantly slipping from his fingers and he rotated his good hand to the right, twisting Sam's shirt with his fingers.

"What did you do? Dean? Hey, what did you do?"

The _hardsoft_ thing was moving beneath his forehead again and he couldn't open his eyes… he couldn't open his eyes and find Sam there. Because that… that would just be the most embarrassing thing ever.

"Took my shirt off, genius," he slurred out and let go of Sam's shirt, mourning the feel of it the moment his body sank deeper into his brother's body.

"Dean, come on."

Sam grabbed his shoulders and pushed him up… they were at the same level now… that was not good, because he knew that the moment he opened his eyes, he would see Sam's and that would just be… even more embarrassing.

_Damnit. _

"Are you nuts?!"

"Maybe, maybe not... what's your problem?"

"My problem!? My problem is that your arm is bleeding and it looks like you ripped half of your skin off… and I can see… meat... and dude, I don't wanna see that."

"You've seen worse."

He opened his eyes and coughed.

Sam was… "angry" didn't do it justice… he was… pissed off.

"Yeah well… there are some things where I draw the line and seeing… meat is one of those things."

Dean groaned.

"Let go of me, man."

"'m not holding ya."

"You're practically lying on me, Dean."

"Ummm…"

This was just all kinds of awkward. He let go of Sam like he was afraid of getting burned again.

"Dean, look, just go to the bathroom and put some cold water on it… take a towel and just put some cold water on it… okay?"

"What happened to the ice, man?"

"Melted."

"Oh."

"Now go to the bathroom and..."

"I know what to do, 'm not a kid."

"You could've fooled me with the stunt you just pulled, Dean… now come on… you do that, and I'm gonna go find something for the pain, okay?"

Sam glanced at the wound: "And some bandages. And some antibiotic cream or something."

"Yes, Sammy."

"Don't... just go… and try to get your T-shirt off too, but if it doesn't come off, leave it on, we'll work around it."

Dean rolled his eyes and got up from the bed. The whole talk with Sam had made him feel more coherent, had given his mind back some of the clarity it had lost when the_ hothothot_ pain had consumed it. It was… refreshing to say the least, to be able to walk without staggering; he didn't wanna think about what stumbling into a chair or falling to the floor would do to his ego.

But the throbbing in his arm didn't stop completely. It was still there… and he was afraid to look down at it. He was afraid of what he would find there. Sam had said meat and blood and _fuck_.

Sweat dripped into his eyes making them sting and he almost missed the water when he tried to dip the white towel underneath it.

He felt awful... no, awful didn't even scratch the surface of how he felt. One burn on his forearm and maybe five or six minor burns on his chest shouldn't have made him feel like he was gonna pass out any moment now or worse… die.

It was just one burn… people survived worse. Sure it was a burn made by a ghost who apparently burns people, but… it really wasn't supposed to hurt so much. Was it?

And then… the whole night came back to him; the hunt, the night, the moon, the smell of sizzling flesh that ruled in the car, the flame that touched him, Sam's scream, the pain… and he thought that passing out would be really awesome right about now.

His eyes watered and his breath was taken away from him when he saw the damage on his arm.

"Son of a bitch."

The wound wasn't big per se, it was just… kind of there and it was bleeding and it was deep and it was showing meat. Maybe Sam was right and removing his shirt was a really really bad move. That move of insanity had already cost him some skin.

"Son of a bitch, God…"

He hit the porcelain sink a few times with his good hand, just to feel a different kind of pain somewhere else, not just on his forearm.

"'s not so bad, not so bad… had worse, right?"

He looked at himself in the mirror and saw the way his shirt on his chest was marked with little holes, dead blackness around them.

"See? I've had worse."

He smiled to his own reflection and look and see, the reflection smiled back at him.

_Okay, this is not good. Infection, fever, damnit._

He crawled back to bed, sitting on the edge of it and slowly laid back, relaxing his back on the now mess of a bed. He was tired, the burn was throbbing with the beat of his heart, his legs hurt from all that walking he and Sam had done and he suspected he had a headache, but he couldn't tell what with all that racket Sam was making getting back from wherever he'd gone.

"Couldn't get the T-shirt off."

To be honest he hadn't even tried. He just wanted to go to sleep and worry about that later… preferably way later… alone… without the watchful eye of his little brother.

"Does it hurt?"

"Do birds fly?"

"Fair enough."

"Ah, I don't think the burns are as bad as the one on my arm."

Sam had this look in his eyes, like he was thinking up a storm in his brain. It unnerved Dean… that was never a sign of something good to come.

"We don't have any antibiotic cream or anything like that… umm I don't know… did you pour any holy water on it?"

"Ummm… no?"

"No as in no, or no as in not yet?"

"Ummm, no as in no freaking way."

"What are you? Like four?"

"Are you like being a bitch?"

"What? Dean… we don't know what that ghost did to you. Do you want it to get infected, you want to have a fever, you want to stay here for days, you want to be so out of it you drool all over the pillows, you want..."

"Okay, enough. Give me the flask."

"Here," Sam handed him a silver flask, "it's probably not the best thing to do, but… I don't know… maybe it'll prevent," and a bottle of Whiskey, "it from getting infected. I don't know."

"You're not sure?"

Sam shook his head.

"Man... if I pass out…"

"Dude, suck it up."

He took a long sip of the Whiskey, the liquid flowing warm down his throat, settling nicely in his stomach.

He huffed at Sam, watching him take off his shoes and shirt, placing it over the back of the chair, seeing Sam go to his duffel and getting out the computer, walking to his bed and dropping on it like he had every intention of breaking it. But he didn't… he just powered up his laptop and looked at the screen like something was gonna jump out of it.

When Sam had stopped moving and it became clear he wasn't going to help, Dean poured the holy water over the wound, gritting his teeth and hissing like a snake.

It burned more than the actual process of burning did. The water ran over his wrist, down to his thighs being soaked up there by the material. The pain enveloped him, froze his body and stilled his nerves. His whole body locked up into a state of shock… he didn't even notice the pain after a moment.

Sam's fingers were making a lot of noise hitting the keyboard, making Dean's brain sizzle with the soft noise.

He was still clutching the bottle of Whiskey by its neck, with knuckles white as snow, when Sam's voice came to his brain: "Uff, that stinks."

And then mercy smiled upon him and he passed out.

There was a second before his mind started to completely comprehend what was going on around him. He opened his eyes, seeking out something that would explain why his arm was feeling cold and tingling and why there was no pain anywhere. Hadn't he been in pain just a few minutes ago? He raised his head and saw his arm lying over his stomach, white bandage covering a large part of his forearm and it felt painless. Just tingling.

"Here."

Something white and small was thrown into his lap, hitting his thigh and rolling off the bed.

"Wh's 'hat?"

"A cream. It should help with the healing. Put it on your chest. Don't want it to get infected or something."

"Yure… inf'ct'd."

"Nice one."

He licked his lips and grumbled:"Bitch."

"Shut up, jerk and do it."

The room wished for its peace and quiet back. The fridge agreed.

**---**

**The End.**

**Come back Jan. 2****nd**** when I'll be posting a remix of Mad Server's fic. And Enkidu07 will have a remix of this fic all neat and shiny on her profile page too. **


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